


Hybrid

by thedevilchicken



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Cat/Human Hybrids, Clothed/Naked, Desperate Arousal/Sexual Frustration, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Overstimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-18 11:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10616163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Once upon a time, Yuri hated to be called cute.(Or: Wherein Yuri Plisetsky is 18.2% a snow leopard.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/gifts).



"You've changed," Victor says. 

Yuri shrugs, trying to act like that doesn't sting, and maybe he even manages it. At least maybe he would if it were anyone but Victor, and if he weren't standing there stark naked in front of him. 

"I've grown up," he replies, maybe sounding nonchalant. He hopes he does, but his perspective is so skewed by this point that he really can't tell. 

"That's not exactly what I mean." 

Yuri's eyes narrow. He puts his hands on his hips. "So what _do_ you mean?"

Victor pauses. Victor looks at him - he really _looks_ at him - and Yuri's mad enough and frustrated enough and off balance enough under his crappy indifferent veneer that he can't even think to be embarrassed that his clothes are on the floor and Victor's still in all of his. Victor's wearing a suit and a tie and a pair of glasses and it's sort of like being scrutinised by a judge out on the ice once the routine's done, they way he's looking at him. 

Victor drums his fingers pensively on the edge of the bed where he's sitting. Then he stops, and he nods, like he's made up his mind, like he knows what's changed, like he's satisfied with his assessment. 

"You used to be cute," Victor says. 

So Yuri sighs and he turns away. 

\---

Once upon a time, Yuri hated to be called cute. 

The problem was, even when you kicked the Angels out of the equation 'cause their ideas totally never counted no matter how loud they screamed and they absolutely still don't count now, that was still pretty much the prevailing opinion when it came to him, aged fifteen through nearly twenty: Yuri Plisetsky was cute. JJ always said it was the tail, but that made sense 'cause the guy couldn't keep his jerk hands to himself around it like it's not kinda weird to go around grabbing another guy's body parts in public. Otabek said it was the ears 'cause it's not like he's ever really been able to hide them when he skates and anyway, who doesn't think cats are cute? Then Lilia said he should play on it more when he skated, but then Yakov glared and called it a ridiculous distraction, so in the end who even really knew?

Usually, Yuri just kinda wished it'd go away, or at least that the attention to it would so he could just focus on the skating. It still pisses him off when people stare even now it's not because he's _cute_ ; these days he's used to the attention and it's different now anyway, the way he looks, the way he's grown up and filled out and _changed_ , 'cause people are almost scared, but the winter of his first senior season he still wore a long coat most times when he went out in public so it covered up his tail and he pulled up his hood to hide his ears, and he pretended he was just like everybody else, like his hybridisation didn't exist. It's okay for some of the other hybrids, he thinks, the ones who trade on it or the ones who pass for fully human, at least with all their clothes on. Then he thinks about his grandpa and you wouldn't know what he is except if you saw the scar where his tail used to be. It was the only animal trait he had, so his parents had it removed like they were doing him a favour. Yuri still sees him rubbing the scar sometimes and he thinks maybe that's why no one ever tried to change him, too; it would've been a whole lot harder to operate on him, but you still hear stories sometimes, even now. 

Yuri can't pass for fully human. JJ's been calling him _kitten_ since the day they met and his rivals and their coaches and their parents and whatever have insisted he get tested so many times since he started competing that he feels like a weird cross between a lab rat and a pin cushion. They've insisted he get tested 'cause maybe, somehow, he's over the hybridisation limit percentage set by ISU regulations. It's like people think he's more cat than human sometimes and for fuck's sake, he's only 18.2% and it's not like that changes. 20% is the magic number so he's a whole 1.8% under that and anyway, he's said it a million times: it's not like it helps him. Who wants to get whipped with their tail in the middle of a combination spin? Who wants to fall out of their quad toe and _land_ on their tail? The answer is _not_ him, that's for damn sure. 

He used to hate to be called cute, 'cause it came up a lot. JJ said it 'cause he knew it annoyed him ("Looking cute, kitten," JJ said, at the gala after he won his second grand prix final, the third time he'd been in one. "Yeah, maybe I'm part leopard but you're all asshole," Yuri replied.) Yuuri used to say it in Japanese, like Yuri had lived his whole life under a rock and not in Russia and he didn't know what _kawaii_ meant. The interviewers plagued him with it. The Angels drove him nuts with it. And then there was Victor. Then there was _Victor_.

He was sixteen the year of his second senior grand prix final. 

He'd been looking forward to it, 'cause when had he not looked forward to skating? He'd performed well all season, really well, even now _Agape_ was out of his program, but there he was, in France, at the rink, at practice, fucking _suffering_. Everything that he touched or that touched him drove him mad, from lacing his skates to the fabric of his gloves against his hands to the way his hair brushed his ears and JJ pushed past him and he could've screamed. He pressed his mouth against his gloves and he _did_ scream. JJ just looked at him oddly for a second then patted him on the head and he screamed again. JJ laughed. He tugged on his tail and called him _kitten_ and Yuri screamed _again_ , out loud, in his face. JJ looked pleased as Yuri took off running, but then JJ's always been an asshole. 

He knew what was happening. Of course he did, he's not a total idiot. It'd never happened to him before and no one really liked to talk about it but he knew because how couldn't he? He could feel it in him and he hated it but he _needed_ it and everything grated at him, everything riled him up and made him angry and fuck that, really, fuck that, getting himself off before he'd gone to the rink hadn't helped, it'd just taken the edge off for maybe forty minutes and now he was miserable again. Even JJ was starting to look good to him. 

When Victor walked into the changing room, he was in the shower. He was curled up in an angry ball around his stupid erection, one arm round his knees, one hand in his hair, sitting there on his bare backside on the tiled floor with his knees pulled in almost right up to his chest. The cold water wasn't helping at all, just making him shiver, and the fur on his tail was completely soaked through. But Victor walked in and Yuri looked up, mid-shiver, lifting his forehead up from his knee. There was probably a big red mark right across his face where he'd been leaning, but he couldn't find the will to care. 

"Is that cold water?" Victor asked, loitering by the entrance to the walled-off shower cubicle.Yuri hadn't bothered closing the curtain behind him, something something fucking stupid turned-on brain and since when had privacy been anywhere in sports anyway, but right that instant he regretted it. 

He nodded. Victor frowned. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"You're not freezing?" Victor asked. 

He tried to shake his head but he shivered again. His teeth chattered. No point denying it, he figured - he really _was_ freezing. So he huffed, 'cause that seemed like an appropriate response. 

"What's wrong, Yuri?" Victor asked. 

"Nothing," he replied. 

"This doesn't look much like nothing."

"Go away." 

"That's not an answer."

So Yuri huffed again and let his arms and legs flop out wide. He gestured exasperatedly at his stupid, stupid, dumb hard cock. 

"I feel like I can't get rid of this," he said. 

Victor raised his brows. "Priapism?"

Yuri snorted. "Yeah. Kinda." He twisted up his mouth in a kind of irritable, ugly smile and maybe thought about pulling his knees back in and covering up, but in the end he didn't bother, what was the point? He let his head rest back against the tiled wall and let it loll away to one side. Victor had already seen everything anyway. Stupid Victor. Never there when he said he'd be, always there when you wished he'd leave you the hell alone.

"Heat," Victor said, suddenly, sounding genuinely shocked but looking like someone's crappy sitcom acting, and Yuri shrugged, trying not to look ashamed of it, or at least trying not to think about Victor telling everyone else in the whole fricking arena what was going on with him and then he'd never hear the end of it. It wasn't like he was a gossip, not really, but sometimes the guy just had no filter. 

"Can I help?" Victor said, which was totally not what Yuri had expected at all. 

Yuri looked at him sharply. "No," he snapped, peevishly, and looked away again. "I'll be fine." 

"You don't look fine."

"Go away." 

So Victor left. And Yuri sat there like a fricking idiot, wondering what the hell he'd just done, and why.

Once he'd towelled down, he hid in the changing room for the next half hour. After that, he lurked by the rink with his hood pulled up and his hands shoved into his pockets and his kit bag on his lap, trying to pretend like he wasn't going pretty much out of his mind and his cock wasn't still straining hard against his jeans. He watched Victor practice, floating around the ice that irritatingly effortless-looking way he did, all graceful lines and screw that, really, screw that shit, 'cause Yuri wasn't thinking about skating. He was thinking about Victor asking him if he could help. He was thinking about what Victor had really meant by that. 

They went back to the hotel and Yuri ducked his head and put his music on and jogged up the stairs to his room 'cause he figured exercise might help. He'd read about this, the dumbass shit that was happening to him, how some hybrids could meditate through it or push all that energy into their work or whatever, but that took time and practice and he didn't have either. There'd been suppressants on the market for eight or nine years by then and he knew that, too - it'd been tempting but ninety percent of sports governing bodies had banned them 'cause of the minor ingredients, something about performance enhancing, mutter mutter what-the-fuck-ever. He'd have to drop out of competition to take them. He was stuck with a kind of off-and-on erection the size of St Petersburg and an attitude even worse than normal. 

He ate room service. He tried to watch TV. He tried ordering an adult movie and getting off while watching it but he was too distracted for that, somehow, too. He paced. He stood on the balcony and looked out over the sea and he yelled into his hands and he went inside and yelled into his pillow and he touched himself again and it didn't work, nothing worked, stupid fucking body, stupid fucking heat. So he left his room and he paced the corridor. He ran up the stairs and then down them and then up them all again like wearing himself out might help, but it didn't, it really didn't, he just got breathless and sweaty and even more pissed off than he'd been before. So, he trudged back to his room. He didn't get there. He knocked at Victor's instead. 

"What did you mean, _can I help_?" he asked, glaring from behind his hair when Victor opened up the door barefoot in sweats and a tank top. 

Victor pushed the hair back from Yuri's eyes and tucked it back behind his ear and Yuri would've growled except that wasn't the kind of this that leopards did. Fucking roaring cats, non-roaring cats, he'd've been better off like the cheetah tribe he'd heard about in Africa that everyone left alone but they were something like 23.7% on average and even now he still can't think what that must be like. He's only 18.2% and sometimes he feels like he's more animal than human. He's only 18.2% but that doesn't mean there's not a reason he eats the burger without the bun sometimes and it's not just 'cause he's avoiding the carbs. 

"I meant, can I help?" Victor said, like that wasn't infuriating, and Yuri grimaced and rubbed at his hair 'cause Victor touching it had felt almost as bad right then as rubbing his tail fur the wrong way usually did. 

"That didn't answer the question." He sighed. His hair flopped back down in front of his eyes so he blew it away petulantly. "Did you mean can you get me one of those snack bars Yakov says I can't have and distract me with a crappy movie?"

"Would that help?" 

"No."

"Then I didn't mean that." 

Yuri huffed. "So what _did_ you mean?" he asked. 

Victor looked at him. Victor looked him up and down with his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the door frame. He's always been taller than him and Yuri knows he always will be, but he felt small right then in a way he'd never really felt before. He felt angrier than he'd been in months and more frustrated and resentful and he shoved his hands into his pockets and glared up at him like all of this was Victor's fault. He's always hated how laid back he is sometimes, how he forgets stuff that's important and says stuff that makes no sense or makes him want to scream. 

Victor looked at him, then he uncrossed his arms and put his hands on Yuri's shoulders. He squeezed, and Yuri could've shouted out loud with it. He pushed down Yuri's hood and rubbed at one of his fluffy little ears with his fingers and his thumb and Yuri could've _cried_ with it. He shook instead, not like it was voluntary, rooted to the spot and not sure if it was more from outrage or his stupid-ass libido stuck in overdrive. 

"Do you want to have sex with me?" Victor said, with a placid little smile on his too-calm face. And Yuri wanted to push him away or hit him or something, anything, but all he did was screw up his face just like Victor had slapped it and ball his hands up into fists as he looked down at the floor. 

He nodded tightly. "Yes," he said, through gritted teeth. 

Victor stepped aside. "Then you'd better come in," he said. 

He almost didn't go. He thought about turning around and walking away because really, screw Victor Nikiforov, he was hot and he was famous and he was some kind of Russian national institution, but Yuri didn't need him. Except he did, or at any rate he needed _someone_ , and Victor was there and Victor was willing and who was he kidding? He was _Victor Nikiforov_ , Yuri wasn't walking away. He went in. He kicked the door shut behind him. 

"Take off your clothes," Victor said, as he sat down on the end of the hotel room bed, and Yuri frowned and then he did it, what the hell. Victor had already seen him naked, he guessed, and not just earlier that day, though the incident in the shower he guessed had the weird distinction of him also seeing him with his cock so hard and fricking angry that he hadn't really even wanted to touch it. So he took off his hoodie and he tossed it onto the floor and Victor raised his brows at him so he picked it back up and put it on the chair, like Victor was any better with his crap than that, but whatever. He frowned to himself as he toed off his sneakers and pulled off his t-shirt. He scowled at himself as he unbuckled his belt and pulled down his jeans, irritated enough that it was pretty far from a striptease. And when he was finally standing there naked on the carpet, hands on hips, cock half hard and getting harder, he swept his hair back and he looked at Victor.

Victor was watching him from the end of the bed, his legs crossed at the knee. He fussed with his hair for a moment, brushing it to one side with his fingers like a comb, then he uncrossed his legs and put his hands on his knees. 

"You're cute when you're angry," Victor said, and Yuri bared his teeth, not that he had leopard teeth or anything, just plain old human teeth. His grandpa said some of the old family used to file their teeth into points, but that just seemed dumb to Yuri - either you had it or you didn't. 

"I'm not cute," Yuri replied, terse and glaring, his fingers gripping hard at his hips. 

"Trust me, you are," Victor said, with that same infuriating smile. "And you're definitely angry." 

"If you know that, why are you poking me with a stick?" 

Victor shrugged and ran his fingers through his hair again. "Maybe I think you need to learn control," he said. His smile broadened. "Or maybe I think you're cute when you're angry." 

Yuri made a frustrated sound and Victor chuckled. That didn't make Yuri feel a whole lot better. 

"Come here," Victor said, and Yuri paused a second like he was thinking of putting all his clothes back on and leaving, except he's pretty sure that they both knew he wouldn't. He did as he was told instead, and walked stiffly over the carpet, trudged across the room to Victor like he'd been sent to the headmaster's office, till he was so damn close his cock could almost have nudged him in the nose. 

Victor stood. Yuri's cock caught against the fabric of Victor's sweats and made him shiver. 

"What do you need me to do?" Victor said, almost conversational about it, exceedingly pleasant about it, as he stretched and caught his tank and pulled it up and off over his head. He tossed it onto the floor - so much for fricking neatness, Victor, what the hell - and left himself bare-chested right there in front of him.

"Do you want me to do it with my hand?" Victor asked. He reached down and rubbed the underside of the head of Yuri's cock with one forefinger, then he trailed it over the moist, oversensitive tip. Yuri clenched his jaw as Victor raised his brows quizzically, and then he licked his own finger. 

"My mouth?" he said, and Yuri's insides took up toe loop practice as he jabbed his nails into his palms. He pushed down his sweats and he kicked them aside like being naked was nothing and considering it was Victor and considering his total lack of embarrassment at nudity, and he guessed that made sense considering what he looked like naked. 

"Do you want to fuck me, Yuri?" he asked, with an inquisitive tilt of his head, like he was asking if he wanted another pirozhki, and Yuri's idiot tail swished behind him like it had a mind of its own.

Yuri shook his head. He swallowed tightly. "No," he said, fucking furious at himself for blushing as he said it. 

Victor raised his brows. "Oh," he said, as realisation dawned, and he broke into a grin. "You know, you're cute when you're embarrassed."

"I'm not _cute_ ," Yuri grumbled, scowling, and Victor's grin just brightened. He brushed back Yuri's hair again, made him bristle with it, and pressed his mouth to Yuri's forehead and oh God, how had he not noticed how hard Victor's cock was? It brushed against Yuri's abdomen and it was all too much, Victor's hands in his hair, twisting up in it, curling into fists in it, easing his head back so he had no choice but to look up at him. 

Victor was so much bigger than him then - okay, he still is now, but he was _really_ bigger then, broader, nearly a whole head higher. Victor had been his stupid idol since he'd been a kid and he'd thought about him the way you think about idols, or at least the way he thought people did - he'd thought about how he'd skate against him one day and he'd beat him and Victor would respect him and tell him how good he was because he deserved to win and he'd thought about Victor's hands and his long fingers and how they'd feel on his skin and in his hair and on his fur. 

Yuri's first crush had turned out to be freaked out by hybrids. His first boyfriend had turned out to have some creepy hybrid fetish 'cause even among hybrids in general, what Yuri is is frustratingly rare and even in the more common ones, the dogs and cats and rabbits and foxes, they're not usually more than 7%, 8%, maybe less. Yuri is a fricking snow leopard, like he doesn't think that sound ridiculous. Yuri has a _tail_ , for fuck's sake. But he'd always imagined Victor wouldn't care. He'd always imagined Victor wouldn't be fazed by it and they'd screw in spite of what he was, not because of it. But there they were, because of what he was. Stupid biology, fucking things up. 

And then Victor kissed him, on the forehead and then on the mouth, one hand still in his long hair while the other went down to wrap firmly around the base of Yuri's tail. Yuri shivered. Everything felt heightened, ten times brighter and sharper and rougher than normal. He could barely bear to have him touch him, but then again he couldn't not. Maybe they were there 'cause Victor felt sorry for him, but he guessed he'd better make the most of it.

Victor's hands moved. Victor got his hands to the curve of Yuri's ass and he bent his knees and if he hadn't been so fricking hopelessly turned on, Yuri would've snickered. When he brought his hands to Yuri's waist to lift him, Yuri took a bounce and helped; he got his legs around Victor's waist in a second, got his fingers in his hair, and he kissed him, hard, Victor's cock rubbing there between his legs. Victor held him up - bigger and broader and stronger turned out to be good - like some demented kind of pairs move, though it was a bit too obscene for the ice; he walked with him, carefully, then he dumped him down on the bed and went with him. Victor stretched out over him, propped up on his hands, and Yuri pushed and pulled at his tail till it was comfortable, except nothing was comfortable. Everything was ten times too intense for that.

There was lube in Victor's travel bag and he left the bed to find it and once he had, he slicked himself up with it standing next to the bed where Yuri could see. He could feel himself blushing as he twisted his fingers into the bedsheets, as he watched Victor stroke himself. He'd always imagined Victor would be some kind of a stone cold lover somehow, probably 'cause he'd always imagined he'd had like a hundred other guys, but his face was flushed, too. He was blushing when he came back to the bed and ran his slick fingers between Yuri's thighs, when his fingertips rubbed against him, and Yuri groaned out loud 'cause it felt great being touched and it felt fucking terrible and he wanted it but he hated that he wanted it, and he hated that he sounded like he wanted it.

Victor leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the head of Yuri's cock that made him shudder and buck his hips so hard he almost thought he'd come. Victor ran his hands over Yuri's thighs and pressed his mouth to his abdomen, his chest, teased one nipple with the tip of his tongue as he pinched at the other and Yuri's back arched and his hands went up to the headboard and he yanked at it 'cause it was all he could do to keep from yanking at Victor's hair instead. Victor's mouth found the side of his neck and he pushed his cock down between Yuri's thighs and fuck, fuck, Yuri fucking _writhed_ as Victor pushed against him, as the head of his cock started to open him up, as Victor pushed inside him. He felt dizzy, he felt sick, it was too much and he shook like a fricking leaf as Victor shifted his hips and moved in him. He groaned, he whined, he fricking _keened_ as Victor fucked him slowly and he wanted it faster, harder, wanted it over as soon as, like ten minutes ago, but Victor did it just like that, so slow Yuri was the only one whose muscles trembled. 

Pretty soon, Yuri couldn't even form a thought. He was just limbs and moans and hopeless, twitching muscles and his cock that strained against his belly and his tail that couldn't keep itself still. Victor ran one hand over Yuri's hair, over his ears, kissed his mouth as he fucked him, touched him everywhere he could and Yuri couldn't form the words to tell him to stop or keep going and didn't know which one he wanted anyway. When Victor's hand wrapped around his cock and stroked, he was helpless. When he came, his back arching, bucking down against Victor's cock inside him, it felt like the dawn of the fucking apocalypse. It flashed white-hot inside his head. And Victor groaned with it, as Yuri pulled even tighter around him, thrust against him with the slap of skin to skin before he came, too, pushed up deep in him. 

Yuri's honestly still not sure if he passed out or not but all he knows is one second Victor was pulling out of him and the next he was purring. _Purring_. Fucking purring cats, non-purring cats, whatever, he'd never purred in his life. 

"You're cute when you purr," Victor said, and he wanted to object but then Victor rubbed the spot behind one furry ear and he fucking purred again. After that, he didn't bother to speak. He just let himself relax. He needed it. Victor really had helped.

Victor won the final over the next few days, ahead of Yuuri in silver and JJ in bronze; Yuri came in a disappointing fourth, and he was pissed at himself, fuming at himself 'cause he should've done better. He was better than that. Victor watched his free and Yuri scowled at him after and Victor waved 'cause that was just like Victor, ignoring the signs, except they'd been fucking for nearly three whole days by then. It turned out Victor had been happy to help and keep on helping, with his mouth and his hands and his big stupid dick that it turned out Yuri couldn't get enough of. He'd've ridden Victor's cock all night if he could've, his knees spread out wide and his tail twitching; the second night, after the short, he kinda had. Victor hadn't complained.

Yuri skated the gala and spent a half hour at the afterparty and then he slipped away to his room. He guessed he had another three days of that ridiculous fricking clawing need inside him, but that was fine 'cause he didn't have to skate his way through it anymore and he packed his bags and he took a shower and he blow-dried his hair and he went to bed. He'd barely seen his own room since that first night with Victor. It was kinda weird, trying to make himself come without him. It didn't work the same way at all.

He left the next morning. And the next time he saw Victor, it was like it'd never happened. 

Victor retired. Again. He took some time off but pretty soon he was back there with Yakov, learning to coach. It was weird, being around him like that, having him correct his entry into this jump or that spin, his footwork in a step sequence, his tail in the landing on the loop. He started to get stronger that year and he could feel it happening and see it in the mirror, bit by bit. By the time the grand prix final rolled round again, he was different, just a little, just enough to look like he'd started to look like the man that he'd been growing into and not just a hybrid teen.

In Japan that year, it was the same damn thing. He'd been feeling it coming on for days, with a kind of sick dread, and he could see Victor eyeing him like he remembered the last time when he'd found him pissed off and shivering in the showers. And he tried not to need it, he really did, but when Victor came to his room that night before the short, he was desperate. It was like it had never gone away. 

"It's happening again," Victor said, and Yuri nodded. "Are you going to let me in?" He did. And that time, he was there every step of it. That time, Victor had more of himself to give. Every time Yuri needed it, Victor was there to give it, fingers over his sweats under his jacket, his mouth in the showers, whatever, whenever, so he could focus on the ice. Victor fucked him while he was changing, Victor's suit around his thighs and Yuri bare from head to toe. Victor had him up against a wall in Yuri's room, Yuri's legs around his waist. When Victor was too tired to go again - _old man_ , Yuri told him, _you leave your stamina at home?_ \- he watched from a chair and told Yuri how to touch himself. In the end, all he had to do was say the words and Yuri was already there. He barely even had to touch.

He won. It was another routine that Victor choreographed that did it for him but he was the one who did the damn skating and he won, and that was that, they were done. Victor congratulated him and grinned and said, _let's do this again next year_ , and that meant that it was over. They went home. And three months later, some pharmaceutical megaconglomerate brought out suppressants that the ISU was happy to accept. Yuri got on them straight away and he's had them for three years now and fuck, they really work. It helps, when he remembers to forget how it feels like he's been dulled down by them. Sometimes he feels tame, and he hates that, but the point is his skating's excellent. He guesses that was the choice he made. 

But the problem is, no heat's meant no Victor and Yuri might tell himself sometimes that that make sense, and maybe it even does 'cause it's not like Victor ever committed himself to anything - _next year_ meant _next heat_ and there's never been another since so he didn't expect him to be there with him at the next grand prix final, even if he kinda hoped he would be anyway. Victor left Russia and took on skaters of his own to train and that makes sense, too, 'cause it's how to further his career now he's not skating, for real this time. And Yuri's grown up. 

He turned twenty-one this year and he's all grown up - there's a thick stripe of fur right down his back now, from the nape of his neck to the base of his tail. He's stronger, his muscle's denser, he's so much more powerful, less slight though he's never going to be big, though he looks _tough_ \- he could probably fully rotate a quad axel if he practiced it, but he knows he can't 'cause precision takes precedence. Everything's easier now and harder at the same fricking time. At least no one tells him he's cute anymore; there was only ever one person he didn't mind saying that, anyway. 

He's dated, of course, a couple of skaters and a couple not, but he knows in the background there's always been Victor Nikiforov. He's never really gone away 'cause he's training a couple of guys on the circuit and they see each other at nationals, at worlds, the Olympics, when Yuri's skating and sometimes Victor's there to coach or interview or commentate. They've been almost friendly, 'cause Yuri's the new Russian idol and Victor kinda passed him the torch, but Yuri's smile is always strained when Victor puts his arm round him for the camera, 'cause he's not remembering times when they were teammates and all that happy camaraderie bullshit. Victor never looks like he knows what to make of it, and Yuri guesses he shouldn't be surprised. 

It's just there's that other thing that Yuri remembers sometimes, back when they were at the grand prix final. He remembers needing it so bad he could've screamed and he sometimes did. He remembers the blush on Victor's face like he liked it, too. He remembers how he could've almost come just from the feel of Victor's cock in him. He remembers forgotten promises and how it felt to be that fucking _alive_.

This year, Yuri won gold again and Victor was there watching. He still fucking hates it when Victor watches except he doesn't and he does and look, it's complicated, okay? But today was the gala and the day before was the final and Victor was there, watching Yuri skate, and afterwards he hovered by the kiss and cry and watched him there, too, like that wasn't distracting as hell, and Yakov glared at him, like that had ever done any good even when Yakov had been Victor's coach, too. 

"I've got a gift for you," Victor said, after, and Yuri frowned like maybe Victor had finally lost it, or he'd realised he'd never had it to begin with. He has no idea what he was talking about, but his stupid brain keeps going back to it. 

Three minutes ago, there was a knock on the door, and he wa texting with Otabek so he didn't bother to answer it. Another knock after that and he was pissed off enough by then to toss his phone onto the bed and go to the door. 

"Victor," he said. He frowned. 

"Are you going to invite me in?" 

He hadn't been, but he guessed he should. He stood back far enough for Victor to get by, and he guessed that counted as an invitation. When he came in, Yuri closed the door behind him. 

"What do you want, Victor?" he said, no sugar-coating 'cause even if that had been his style, he was tired, way too tired for this bullshit, for Victor's little games. 

"I've got a gift for you," Victor said, and Yuri guessed there was a box in his hand so maybe that was even true. 

"I didn't ask for anything." 

"I think you did, and I just wasn't listening." 

Victor sat down on the edge of Yuri's rumpled bed, thankfully not on top of his phone. He put the box down next to him on the bedspread. 

"Take off your clothes, Yuri," he said. Yuri frowned, with an agitated swish of his tail. 

"Why would I do that?" he said, though fuck, his fingers were itching to pull off his shirt. 

"Because I asked you to," Victor replied. 

Yuri sighed. He pulled off his shirt and he dropped it stubbornly on the floor. He pushed down his sweats and he shoved them aside and he stood there, hands on hips. It was nothing Victor hadn't seen before, he guessed, and the sooner he did it the sooner Victor would leave. 

"Okay," he said. "Are we done now?"

"You've changed," Victor said. 

Yuri shrugged, trying to act like that didn't sting, and maybe he even managed it. At least maybe he would have if it had been anyone but Victor, and if he hadn't been standing there stark naked in front of him. At his fucking request, no less. It was so dumb he could've laughed out loud.

"I've grown up," he replied, maybe sounding nonchalant. He hopes he did.

"That's not exactly what I mean," Victor said.

Yuri's eyes narrowed. He put his hands on his hips. "So what _do_ you mean?" he asked.

Victor paused. Victor looked at him - really _looked_ at him - and Yuri was mad enough and frustrated enough and off balance that he couldn't even think to be embarrassed that his clothes were on the floor and Victor was still wearing all of his. A fricking suit and glasses like that makes him look any more professional 'cause they all remember his costumes, even now.

Victor drummed his fingers on the side of the bed. Then he stopped, and he nodded, like he'd made up his mind, like he knew what'd changed. 

"You used to be cute," Victor says. 

So Yuri sighs and he turns away and tells himself fuck that, he never wanted to be cute. There's only so much he can take from Victor fucking Nikiforov on any one day and he's way past his limit and he rakes his fingers through his hair that he's let grow even longer now so he usually wears it tied back. He used to like to hide behind his hair, or at least to glare out from behind it, but now he really couldn't give a fuck. 

"Yuri," Victor says. 

"Just get out," he replies. 

"I made a mistake." 

"You've made a few."

He glances back over his shoulder. Victor actually has the gall to look hurt. 

"I'm thinking of coming back to Russia," Victor says. 

"I already have a coach."

"That's not why." 

Yuri pauses, turns, leans back against the wall. He looks at him. Silently. Expectantly. Brows raised. "Oh, am I meant to ask what for?"

Victor frowns. Yuri's never seen him look so disconcerted. "Would you like me to?" he asks. 

"What, come back to Russia?"

"Yes."

"What _for_ , Victor?" he asks, and for a second he's so angry it's almost like he's not taking the fricking pills. He's so angry he's almost turned on and it's like he's sixteen again, his first heat, his first love, mixed up and fucked up and pissed off. 

"For you," Victor says, like it should've been obvious, like he's bewildered by all of this, and it hits Yuri right in the gut because Jesus, he's finally got there. Maybe Victor's aged but he's not picked up more of a clue along the way; who would've thought Yuri Plisetsky would be the one with all the sense. "I thought I'd worked it out. But if you're not interested..."

Yuri laughs. And maybe it starts out bitter and abrupt and takes Victor by surprise but he shakes his head and he rubs his face and he goes across the room and he runs his fingers right into Victor's stupid hair. 

"What's in the box?" he asks. So Victor shows him. He opens it up.

Anyone else, he'd be offended. Anyone else, he'd threaten to ram it straight down their throat, but somehow it's kinda cheesy-sweet from Victor, somehow there's a weird kind of thrill to it. There's a collar in the box, studded white patent leather, stupid punk rock shit like he still likes to wear and his fans like to send him even though he's not someone's motherfucking pet kitten. He's 18.2% _leopard_ with a tail that's so long it brushes the floor if he lets it, and muscles so dense and strong and tight that skating the way he does should be impossible. There's a reason no one calls him cute anymore.

He picks the collar up, and there's a tag that's hanging from it. He reads it. He looks at Victor, and he hands it back. He kneels.

"Go on, put it on me," he says, and Victor lights up like a fricking bulb with a grin from ear to ear. He buckles the collar around his neck. He doesn't mind how it feels against his skin, against his fur, how the tag tickles at the hollow at the base of his throat. 

"You used to be cute," Victor says, looking down at him. "Now you're perfect."

Yuri wishes that didn't make him feel so completely, absurdly proud.

What happens shouldn't make so much sense. It's like a blast from the past in a promise from the future and when Victor undresses, okay, he's not in competition shape, but he's still looking good and he probably always will. Yuri pushes him onto the bed with a grin that Victor returns and while he's reaching for the lube, that's when Yuri realises how stupid this is. They've screwed so many times before but never just because. It was always because he needed it to function.

"You thought I just wanted the sex for competition," Yuri says. Victor shrugs, sprawled on his back. "You chose a stupid time to turn skittish, Victor. I wasn't even close to done with you."

"You could've said so."

"So could you, dumbass." 

Victor slaps him pathetically on the chest in mock retaliation. Yuri feigns injury. Victor just snorts. 

He slicks Victor's cock and Victor lets him. He does it slowly, teases him, the tip of his tail flicking at his ankles as he does so because he knows that Victor's ticklish. He's still trying not to snicker as Yuri shuffles up to straddle his hips, as he spreads his knees and settles down. Victor's grinning like an idiot as Yuri takes his cock in his hand and he sits back on it, as he pushes down, as he takes him in. Maybe he should've taken more time about it, but fuck that, they've taken enough time about it; he's been in love with Victor Nikiforov since before he knew what that even meant. 

And maybe it isn't as tense or taut or as fucking fucked up, but maybe it doesn't have to be, not all the time. Maybe sometimes it can be Victor's hands on Yuri's hips and a kiss that lingers a fraction too long not to mean anything. Maybe it can be Victor's blush as Yuri rides him, slow enough that it can maybe last all night. And after, once they've both come with grins like idiots and fingers tangled up in hair, Victor plays with the tag that hangs from Yuri's collar. It says, _If found, please return to Victor Nikiforov_. 

If he's got to be anyone's kitten, he thinks he might as well be Victor's. And he guesses if it lasts, he'll skate next season like he's on fucking fire.


End file.
